


The Sword's Edge

by wheel_pen



Series: Viridian Trip [9]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fish out of Water, Gen, Imprinting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:06:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are Klingons on the Enterprise. People say they’re friendly, just here for scientific collaboration, but Trip can’t shake the anxiety he feels around them. When the collaboration falls apart, one of the Klingons angrily insults Jon, and we all know what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sword's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Viridians appear human, but are actually aliens who imprint on other people (Viridian or otherwise) and form a bond with them. They also live their entire life cycle in about six Earth years.
> 
> 2\. In each series, a different character is a Viridian, who was raised by mean Klingons on an outpost. An Enterprise crewmember is captured by the Klingons and they inadvertently form a bond with the Viridian, who helps them escape. Then they return to rescue the Viridian and bring them aboard the Enterprise. The Viridian homeworld is contacted and the Enterprise crew learn the Viridian will most likely die if they are sent away. So they end up staying on the Enterprise, and the crewmember has to adjust.
> 
> 3\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Usually Trip could take comfort in how Jon was feeling. If he was tense or unhappy, Trip could focus on being there to look after him, help him. If he was happy, then Trip was happy, too. But lately that strategy just didn't seem to be working.

Trip blamed Them. Things had gotten worse when They had come onboard. He used to roam all over the ship—Engineering, Sickbay, the Armory, anywhere people needed him to do a little something for them. Now he sat in their cabin all day, playing games with Porthos to make up for the fact that he couldn't take the beagle for a walk. He only ventured out when he had to, when the Captain called him somewhere or when he needed to eat. When he had to go out, he spent hours beforehand debating how he should do it—should he stick to lesser-known passageways usually empty of people, where One of Them might catch him alone? It was safer to stay in the main hallways, the crowded areas, except crowds of crewmembers meant it was likely They would be there, too. So both choices made him uneasy. And even when he couldn't see Them, he could hear Them, or smell Them.

Jon had tried to explain the situation to him. In fact, he usually tried every time he saw Trip, whether in the evening or during the day. Jon seemed to spend a lot of his time each day thinking of new ways to describe the state of affairs to Trip, new positive aspects or advantages or opportunities. That was very like Jon, which Trip loved. But Jon was also well aware of how stubborn Trip could be. Usually it worked in Jon's favor, because it meant he was well-protected or taken care of, but in this case it irritated him, and made him feel a little guilty as well. Trip knew all this. But he couldn't do anything to change it.

So Trip was bored and restless, and sometimes scared, and Jon was annoyed and guilty. All because They had come onboard. And They wouldn't be leaving for another ten days at least. Maybe longer, if something went wrong and adjustments had to be made to Their equipment.

Trip's stomach grumbled and he decided it was time to go out. He was down to one meal a day—it was safer that way. It was a _big_ meal, granted, as much food as he could shovel in at one time, to make it last twenty-four hours. The trade-off to eating just one meal was that he had to stay in the Mess Hall longer, thus increasing the chances that They would enter. He had already tried bringing the food back to their cabin to eat, but Jon told him to stop that—he didn't like to see the dirty dishes piled up, waiting to be taken back the next day. He didn't like to see the _clean_ dishes piled up, either, after Trip had carefully washed and dried them in the bathroom sink in an attempt to get around that dictum.

So he had to go to the Mess Hall. It was a complicated ritual now, involving several minutes of staring at the door, mentally walking through the halls of _Enterprise_ in preparation. Finally he stood and took a tentative step forward. Porthos immediately jumped off his pillow and ran to the door, hoping it was at last time to go out.

"No, Porthos, you have to stay here," Trip told him, pointing back to his pillow. Tail drooping, the beagle went back to his bed.

Trip exited their cabin, stopping immediately outside the door and looking up and down the hallway. A few crewmembers passing by, none of Them. Somewhat heartened, Trip began the shortest of the more public routes to the Mess Hall, sometimes hurrying up or slowing down to stay in proximity to a group heading in the same direction. At some point, though, he had to turn away from the latest trio he'd been following and make the trek down an oddly deserted stretch of corridor, just twenty meters or so from his goal.

He was halfway there when One of Them appeared in front of him. Trip saw him ahead, just stepping out of a room to the side, and didn't know what to do. There was no room he could duck into himself, no hallway he could turn down, no access panel he could remove and crawl into without attracting undue attention. Precious seconds passed with Trip frozen in the hallway, racing through his options, while He stood with His back to Trip, seemingly unaware of his presence. But that couldn't last long.

He turned around, as if getting His bearings, and immediately spotted Trip. There would be other people in the Mess Hall, Trip decided desperately. That was his best bet. He would just keep walking, keep his eyes down, get to where he was going. He didn't want any trouble.

He watched Trip with some sort of interest, perhaps amusement, Trip didn't know, he was only looking at his boots. The course Trip had set would take him well away from Him, on the other side of the corridor, but He maneuvered Himself into Trip's path such that Trip had to come up short to avoiding running into Him entirely.

Trip's head came up about to His shoulder. At this distance of only a few centimeters Trip could see the hard lines of the design etched into the leather breastplate He wore, smell the overpowering odor of animal products and sweat. After a momentary falter in his stride, Trip moved to step around Him and keep going.

He gave a chuckle deep in His chest and took a step to the same side, blocking Trip again. "What's your name, human?" He asked, like he was toying with a lesser creature.

Trip's instinct was to drop to his knees, hang his head, and answer. It would have been the proper response not so long ago. But he had made _some_ small amount of progress since then—he might hide from Them, he might run from Them, but he wasn't going to _bow_ to Them.

Or speak to Them. With a little more determination, or rather desperation, Trip tried to go around Him, but this time He grabbed his arm and repeated, more impatiently, "I _said_ , what's your name?"

Trip's heart was beating so fast he was afraid it would explode, killing him on the spot. Well, he could certainly think of worse fates at the moment. Even if he had wanted to speak at this point, he couldn't have, his mouth was so dry. He couldn't even remember what he had been asked.

He shook Trip's arm, trying to prod a response out of him. "Is there a problem here?" a crisp voice suddenly intoned, and Trip glanced up quickly to see Lt. Reed beside him, staring down He who held Trip's arm.

Trip was immediately released, with just the slightest shove. "No, not at all," He replied, insincerely.

"Then I suppose, you'll be going," Malcolm suggested in a steely tone. He merely uttered a growl in response and stomped off. Trip dove for the Mess Hall.

The crowd was moderate, with none of Them in sight, but the last thing on Trip's mind was food. He grabbed the first thing at hand from the shelf and sat down in the corner, staring at the tabletop without seeing it. After a few moments Malcolm sat down opposite him.

"Are you alright, Trip?" he asked, concerned.

Trip swallowed hard, nodded unconvincingly. He felt better with Malcolm and the others around. People knew him on this ship, they liked him, they wouldn't let Them get him. That was something he could take comfort in. It was one argument Jon hadn't thought up yet.

"It _is_ a little weird, having the Klingons around," Malcolm continued, trying to draw Trip into conversation. "Everyone's been a bit on edge."

Trip tried to relax a little, calm his breathing. He picked at the food he'd chosen—an egg salad sandwich. He didn't like egg salad. Jon didn't like egg salad.

"I haven't seen you around much," Reed went on. "You've missed some practice."

"I'm sorry," Trip told him, still not quite looking up. "I've been—staying home a lot."

Reed was about to say something else when the door to the Mess Hall opened again and Two of Them walked in—not including the One Trip had run into in the hall, but it was enough for him.

"I think I'm gonna go now," he decided, standing quickly. "See you, Malcolm."

"Trip!" Reed followed him as he slid past the Klingons unnoticed and out into the hall. He caught up with the young man and walked with him silently for a few moments. Trip felt agonizingly uncomfortable, embarrassed and self-conscious, hoping that his friend didn't feel like he _had_ to walk Trip home. And yet at the same time Trip was immensely grateful for his presence. They stopped at the door to the Captain's cabin, which for the moment seemed like a sanctuary to Trip. He started to enter when Malcolm added, "Trip. If they bother you again, you'll let me know?" Trip gave him a tiny smile and a nod, then disappeared behind the doors.

 

"How much longer are the Klingons going to be onboard, sir?" Reed asked, for perhaps the third time since the situation had begun.

Archer didn't know if this was Reed's usual paranoia showing through or a particular enmity for the Klingons. "At least ten days, maybe longer." He narrowed his eyes at his Tactical Officer. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Reed looked thoughtful. "Perhaps we should assign some security personnel to them," he suggested.

Archer sighed and stood up from his desk to pace his Ready Room. "Malcolm," he reminded the officer, "there are our _guests_. We're trying to prove we can work _peacefully_ with these people."

"I'd feel more peaceful if we had guards watching them at all times," Reed shot back, not disrespectfully. Archer rolled his eyes and Malcolm played his trump card. "I caught one of them in the hallway today, in a confrontation with—Trip."

He suddenly had the Captain's complete attention. "Which one?" he immediately demanded.

"Durgah, I think," Malcolm replied. "The nephew of Dr. Surkas. Trip looked pretty upset."

Archer turned away briefly, facing the stars that streaked past the window. "He didn't mention anything about that," he finally commented, facing Reed again, a bit calmer.

Reed shrugged a little. "I shouldn't think he would."

The Tactical Officer could see his captain's Optimism Drive struggling to fire on all thrusters. "Maybe it was just a misunderstanding," Archer proposed hopefully. "These are _scientists_ , Malcolm. They're here to _learn_."

"I bet he left a bruise on Trip's arm," Reed remarked casually. He felt a little mean rubbing it in, but in his opinion the Captain had been _far_ too free with _Enterprise_ regarding the Klingons. Would Klingons, even those with peaceful intentions, have let _them_ roam wherever they pleased on _their_ ships? Reed doubted it. Besides, the look in Trip's eyes when he'd come upon them in the hallway—it was like a trapped animal. He didn't like seeing his friend that way.

Archer glared at him, as if suspecting he might have made that last bit up. "Was there anything else?" he asked coolly.

Reed's posture stiffened a little in response. "No, sir."

"Dismissed."

 

Trip was asleep when Jon got home. He had been sleeping a lot lately. He whined a little and rolled over to bury his head under the pillows when Jon flipped on the light, then whined even more when Porthos uttered a bark of greeting and leaped onto the bed so Jon could pet him. "Come on, get up," Jon told him genially, shaking Trip's shoulder. "If you take a nap now you won't be able to sleep tonight."

"But I'm tired now," Trip pointed out grumpily, making no effort to move.

"You're tired," Jon informed him, "because you haven't done anything all day."

"That doesn't make any sense," Trip shot back, peeking out from beneath a pillow.

Jon stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the lump on the bed. "You should get out more during the day," he began, trying to keep his tone light. "Go down to Engineering and help Marcus out. Or go to Sickbay—see if Phlox will let you feed his creatures."

"I don't feel like going out," Trip mumbled, pulling the pillow back down.

Jon narrowed his eyes at him, then abruptly yanked the pillow away. Trip made a noise of protest and pulled the second pillow over his head instead. "Malcolm said you... _met_ one of the Klingons in the hall today," he ventured carefully. "He seemed to think it upset you."

"It was nothing," Trip replied, after a moment's hesitation. He didn't want Jon to cause trouble on his behalf, not with Klingons. He just wanted Them to go away, and he wanted to stay in their cabin until that happened.

Jon was getting thoroughly exasperated. He knew how Trip felt about Klingons. He knew _why_ he felt that way. But _these_ Klingons weren't the same ones who mistreated him on the outpost—they weren't even of the warrior class. They were, as he had reminded Malcolm earlier, _scientists_. Scientists who had voluntarily agreed to work with Starfleet on a mission of discovery. They weren't... invaders who had taken over the ship and put everyone under a reign of terror. _Just Trip,_ he thought before he could stop himself.

But this was getting ridiculous. Trip was going to get depressed hanging around the cabin the whole time, and Jon was getting edgy worrying about him. It was his duty to extend every courtesy and assistance to this group of Klingons, and he couldn't very well do that if he were secretly trying to rush them off the ship.

"Come on," Jon finally said, snatching the second pillow away. Trip whined and pulled the covers over his head. Jon nearly fell over trying to wrestle them off him. "Let's go to the Captain's Mess and have dinner."

"Not hungry," Trip murmured from somewhere deep under the blankets.

"I don't care," Jon told him, a bit sharply. "You need to get out." He softened his tone a little and added, "We'll take Porthos." The beagle barked cheerfully in encouragement. "You and me and Porthos, in our own room, nothing to worry about."

It took a little more persuading, to the point where the bed was nearly stripped, but in the end Trip agreed. Jon had never seen him so obstinate before. When they finally walked out of the cabin, Jon was annoyed and Trip was begrudging. Porthos, at least, seemed overjoyed.

At last they started to relax a little bit, as they made their way towards the Mess Hall and Jon's private dining room beyond. Trip had called Chef that morning and suggested pork barbecue for Jon's dinner; whether it was actually made of Earth pig or not remained to be seen, but Jon was confident it would at least be tasty. Porthos scampered happily about their feet, running ahead and then back again as if to tell them to hurry up.

The beagle rounded a corner ahead of them but didn't return immediately. Jon wasn't worried; Porthos had probably just gone further along, or stopped to sniff some invisible thing in the hallway. When he and Trip finally turned into that corridor, however, he had the feeling this was going to be a very long evening.

Dr. Surkas and his nephew, Durgah, were standing in the hall, holding Porthos up and examining him critically. Jon had been working closely with Dr. Surkas over the last several days and found him to be rather amiable, for a Klingon anyway. His nephew seemed a little sullen, but he'd never been hostile. Jon could feel Trip tense up beside him at the sight of the Klingons, but he grabbed his arm discreetly and compelled him forward.

"Ah, Captain Archer," greeted Dr. Surkas. "What a curious creature. Does it belong to you?"

"That's my dog, Porthos," he explained cheerfully.

"Somewhat like a young _targ_ , I suppose," Durgah decided, unimpressed. "Do you get much meat off him?"

Jon didn't risk a glance at Trip. He could just imagine the expression on his face right now. "Porthos is actually a pet," Archer explained diplomatically, taking him back. He deposited the dog in Trip's arms, unsure which one needed more comforting at the moment. "He provides companionship."

"Ah, exactly like a _targ_ , then," Dr. Surkas surmised, satisfied. "Adults can be loyal companions for many years. Although young _targ_ is quite a delicacy, especially when prepared with skill. The trick is to leave the internal organs just _slightly_ raw while searing the outer flesh." He thumped Archer's shoulder convivially. "You should try it sometime, Captain."

"It sounds delicious," Archer agreed, straining to remain affable. He could see the Klingons' eyes flickering towards Trip but, rude as it might be, he didn't think the young man could handle an introduction at the moment. "We were just on our way to dinner, actually."

"Well, have a good meal, Captain," Dr. Surkas wished.

"Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow in Engineering, for those tests." The older man nodded, then he and his companion went in one direction while Archer and Trip headed in the other.

It wasn't until the Klingons had left the hallway that Jon dared look at Trip. He was clutching Porthos like a drowning man clinging to a branch and looked like he was about to be sick. Jon sighed and put his arm around his shoulders. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he tried, knowing how completely wrong that statement was.

"They were gonna eat Porthos," Trip gasped, holding the beagle even more tightly.

"They were _not_ going to eat him," Jon corrected firmly. The mention of the young _targ_ was unfortunate; it had likely brought back unpleasant memories for Trip, who had seen his pet killed for food by the Klingons at the outpost... and had been forced to cook it himself. "Everything's fine, Dr. Surkas was just trying to... share his culture with us. That's all."

Thoroughly unconvinced, Trip refused to let Porthos down until they were in the Captain's Mess with the door shut behind him. His hands shook as he opened the packet of food and dumped it into a bowl for the dog, whose presence on top of the table would no doubt horrify the steward when he came in. Jon just didn't have the heart to insist upon proper table manners tonight, though. They said nothing until after the meal had brought in; the steward had ignored Porthos's seat with extreme grace and merely asked if the Captain would like a bowl of water for him. Jon decided to personally praise him to Chef later.

"You're not eating," Jon remarked carefully a few minutes later, watching Trip push the pork-like substance around on the plate. Jon liked barbecue, therefore he was used to Trip liking it. Porthos sat quietly watching, hoping that perhaps Trip would let him have some.

"I'm not hungry," Trip mumbled, toying with his fork.

"When's the last time you ate?" Jon asked him. Trip shrugged. "This is pretty good," Jon assured him enticingly. "I don't think it's _real_ pork, but..."

" _Targs_ are kind of like pigs," Trip informed him in a quiet voice.

Well d—n. This _was_ going to be a long evening.

 

Duty rosters, incident reports, log entries, sensor readings... not to mention a couple of hours in Engineering checking on the status of the Klingons' equipment. It was barely lunchtime and Captain Archer already felt like he'd accomplished more than usual for the day. He felt tolerant enough, in fact, to check in on his cabinmate, who was no doubt still abed.

"Archer to Trip," he began pleasantly, hitting the comm button on his chair. No answer. "Wake up, Trip, it's almost noon." Smirks around the Bridge.

" _Mmmm... what?_ " Trip's groggy, disoriented voice replied.

"Have you been out of the cabin yet today?" Archer needled him, although the answer was obvious.

" _No_ ," came the slightly irritated response.

"Well, get out," Archer advised snappily.

" _I don't wanna_."

The Captain glanced around the Bridge. Everyone carefully avoided his eyes, focusing on their own work. Perhaps he should have called Trip from his Ready Room. "Trip—report to the Bridge." It couldn't help to give him a little treat, Archer supposed. "T'Pol... needs help with the sensor array." The First Officer glanced over at him with a look that clearly said, _I do_? "That's an order, by the way," Archer added, when Trip didn't respond right away.

" _Can I pilot the ship?_ "

Definitely should have had this conversation in his Ready Room. He could _clearly_ see Hoshi trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. "This is not a negotiation," Archer told him, in what he felt was a very captainly tone. Then he caved. "But Travis could probably use a break."

Whatever loss of face Archer may have suffered was instantly alleviated by Trip's bright, " _Be right there, sir!_ " It was the happiest Jon had heard him since the Klingons came aboard.

"You're spoiling him," T'Pol observed quietly from her station.

Jon ignored the reproach. Sometimes a little spoiling could work wonders.

 

Okay, so he knew Jon was only letting him pilot the ship because he felt guilty about the night before. Trip didn't care. He was still getting to pilot the ship, after all. Even if it would only be for a few minutes, and even if he didn't get to do anything besides make minor course adjustments, he was still getting to pilot the ship. _And_ he would get to be on the Bridge. Trip raced through a shower, unable to remember the last time he'd taken one now that he thought about it, and hurried out the door. He was so excited about getting to go to the Bridge that he barely even thought about—Them.

Trip trotted around a corner, headed for the lift to the Bridge. "Human!" a deep voice suddenly growled, and Trip froze in his tracks, heart pounding. He turned, very slowly, and saw the One he had met yesterday in the hall, the same One who had been with the Old One, marching up to him. Another One of Them was slightly farther down the hall, peering into an open access panel with an ensign from Engineering. The ensign gave Trip and the One talking to him a curious glance but then went back to the task at hand.

Trip's eyes shifted towards the lift. It wasn't very far away. If he ran he could make it. But what if it he had to wait for it to arrive? Then He would certainly catch him. And then they would be just around a bulkhead, just out of sight of the ensign. Keeping his eyes down, Trip inched in the direction of the lift, hoping that would arouse less suspicion than running.

"Human!" He repeated in His gruff tone. Trip had to turn in His direction, even as he kept moving backwards little by little. "I saw you yesterday with the human Captain," He went on, sneeringly. "Who are you?" Trip just shook his head. He wasn't going to speak to Them. He didn't have to. He wouldn't. He was persistent, though. "You wear no rank," He observed haughtily. "Perhaps you are just the caretaker of his... _pet_?" He guffawed loudly, as if He had made a brilliant joke.

They were almost behind the bulkhead. Trip would have only seconds to get on the lift before He could get to him, assuming He _wanted_ to get to him, which Trip did. Before he could make his desperate scramble, however, the lift opened—depositing Commander T'Pol in the corridor.

The Vulcan glanced at both Trip and the Klingon, assessing the situation quickly. "The Captain requires you on the Bridge," she reminded Trip coolly. She acknowledged the Klingon with a polite nod and followed Trip into the lift—he had wasted no time springing through its doors as soon as she had appeared. He sagged back against the wall in relief when the door shut, blocking out the image of He who stood glaring at them.

"You appear—uncomfortable," T'Pol observed analytically. Trip shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed. "It is illogical to believe the Klingons will harm you while aboard _Enterprise_ ," she pointed out.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered quietly. This was now the longest lift ride of his life.

"However," she added a bit stiffly, which in T'Pol's case meant she was actually trying to 'loosen up' in some way, "if you should feel—uncomfortable in the future, you may—contact me, for assistance."

Trip glanced at her, but she was staring straight ahead at the door. "Thank you, ma'am," he told her, feeling slightly surprised but immeasurably better.

"Ah, there you are!" Jon exclaimed, when Trip and T'Pol finally appeared. The young man must have been almost at his destination when Jon had given in to his nerves and sent the First Officer to fetch him. Jon took heart from the smile Trip gave him and continued, "T'Pol is very anxious to get that sensor array working, after all." The First Officer gave him another chiding look.

Trip narrowed his eyes at the Captain. "You said I could pilot the ship."

Yes, well... In the ensuing fifteen minutes Jon had been recalling Trip's propensity for barrel rolls, at least in the shuttlepods. "Mmm... did I say that?" he hesitated awkwardly.

"Yes, sir." The response came not from Trip, but from most of the Bridge crew. Even T'Pol arched an eyebrow at him as if to say, _You're not getting out of this that easily._ Trip grinned.

"Right," Jon finally agreed, feeling strangely outgunned. "Mr. Mayweather, you are relieved. Temporarily," he tacked on quickly. Smirking, Travis surrendered the helm to Trip. "Uh, don't go anywhere," Jon added under his breath, as Travis passed him.

"Yes, sir," Travis assured him, taking a seat near the back.

"Just follow the course that's been laid in," Jon reminded Trip, who was flicking through the helm controls eagerly. "Steady as she goes." Well, at least he looked happy.

           

The last couple of days had been relatively pleasant ones for Trip. The Captain had ordered him out and about more often, and Trip hadn't yet reached the point of disobeying a direct order, so he was seeing his friends and keeping his mind active—which was much better than moping around the cabin. Mostly Trip had been occupied in the Armory and Sickbay and occasionally on the Bridge; all places the Klingons were unlikely to be. Lt. Reed often seemed to have something one of his personnel "needed to get" from someplace just beyond the Captain's quarters, meaning one of the ensigns would be with Trip all the way home. Even T'Pol had twice altered her course to see Trip to his destination when she had encountered him in the hall. Trip had to admit that he liked knowing his friends cared about him, even if he was still embarrassed by the way he acted around the Klingons. Still, they would be gone sooner rather than later, and then they could all get back to normal.

Jon had been letting him work on his studies at the console at the back of the Bridge all morning—despite his ability to absorb information quickly, Trip had gotten a late start on basics like mathematics, science, and history, and Jon was determined that he catch up. Around lunchtime Jon suggested that Trip could use a break—and Hoshi just happened to be taking one as well, so the two of them could go to the Mess Hall together. Odd coincidence, Trip thought with a little smile. He didn't mind Jon trying to take care of him. Kind of liked it, actually. It was a nice change from worrying about _him_ all the time, anyway.

Hoshi was teaching him some jokes. Apparently being a comm officer was pretty boring most of the time, no matter where you were stationed, so it was common to send around amusing dispatches people had found somewhere on the public networks. Thus Hoshi had a large repository of jokes and funny stories to pass on to Trip, often involving wordplay from other languages. Jon usually got a big kick out of hearing several in a row, but secretly Trip's favorite person to tell jokes to was Lt. Reed. Trip had never seen him give more than a dry chuckle in response, but since that was so difficult to obtain, Trip knew that he'd really scored when he saw it. Of course, Lt. Reed was also the one who, after choking a little on some coffee, had informed Trip there was something called "dirty jokes" which were not appropriate to tell among certain people, a fact which neither Jon nor Hoshi had bothered to mention. Malcolm had been quick to add that "certain people" did not, in fact, include _him_ , though.

"—so then the Andorian says, 'Then give me all the cheese and butter you've got!'" Hoshi finished triumphantly as they headed to the Mess Hall. She paused expectantly, waiting for Trip's reaction.

"I don't get it," he confessed. Hoshi usually had to tell the joke two or three times before he really understood.

"Okay," Hoshi sighed patiently, "the Andorian is talking to a Rigellian, and on Rigel—" Hoshi stopped when she saw the look on Trip's face. "Trip? What is it?"

He dropped his eyes intently to the deck plating. "Come on," he hissed under his breath, taking her hand. He lengthened his stride but didn't get past the Klingon who appeared to be waiting outside the Mess Hall for someone.

"Well if it isn't the Captain's dogwalker," Durgah sneered, blocking Trip and Hoshi's path.

Hoshi glanced at Trip, who was staring at his boots. "Excuse us," she said forcefully to the Klingon, trying to move past him into the Mess Hall.

He didn't get out of their way. And he didn't seem to consider Hoshi much of a threat. "I see he has you walking something _else_ today," Durgah added, cruel amusement in his tone.

Trip's breathing increased and he squeezed Hoshi's hand harder, but he just couldn't make himself do anything. He should defend his friends, his friends who defended him, he knew this, but—it was like his mind was filled with white noise, like he was frozen in place, unable to do anything but watch horrible things unfold in front of him.

"Get out of our way," Hoshi ordered the Klingon, unblinking, "or you'll wish you had."

Durgah started to smile, more than willing to take up the challenge—the small human female would be quick work. He would undoubtedly be punished somehow by his uncle, but after days of being cooped up on the human ship, forced to engage in this unnatural cooperation, the compromise which whispered of dishonor... Well, it would be worth whatever minor penalty his uncle came up with, to feel like a Klingon again.

Before he could respond, however, the door to the Mess Hall opened, and Dr. Surkas stepped out. He took a look at his nephew's posture, and those of the _Enterprise_ crewmembers, and frowned with displeasure. His sister's youngest son was always stirring up trouble, wherever he went. "Durgah!" he barked. "Come. We have work." He even gave the human female a slight nod of acknowledgement. Durgah half-grinned, half bared his teeth at the humans, then did as he was told.

Hoshi glared after them for a moment and finally pulled Trip into the Mess Hall. Fortunately there were no other Klingons in it. She sat him down at a table and fetched a couple of plates for them. "Are you okay, Trip?" she asked with concern, settling down across from him.

Trip looked like he was about to cry. "I just—I just—wish they would go away," he finally ground out, staring at his lunch, which he probably wouldn't eat. "I'm sorry, Hoshi, I should've—" He broke off.

Hoshi covered his hand with her own. "Hey, don't worry about it," she assured him. "Everything's fine. Was that the one who's been bothering you lately?" He finally looked up at her, slightly surprised. "Malcolm told me about it," she confessed, not at all ashamed. "He said that T'Pol had also mentioned this guy to him, some incident she'd witnessed with you." Trip gazed aimlessly out at the passing stars. "You should really talk to Captain Archer about this," she pressed. "He can talk to that doctor who's in charge, tell him to keep this guy in line."

Trip was shaking his head. "It doesn't matter," he insisted, picking at his sandwich. "I don't want to cause trouble."

"It seems to me like this guy is the one who's causing trouble," Hoshi insisted. "I mean, there's half a dozen Klingons on this ship, and I bet he's the _only_ one who's ever spoken to you." Trip shrugged by way of response. "And I think it's pretty obvious he's not doing it to make friends."

"He knows I'm afraid of him," Trip told her simply. "I'm sure it's not hard to tell," he added bitterly. "It's just—when I'm around them, I can't even think. I can hardly move. I don't know what to do." He sighed. "This thing's real important to the Captain. I don't want to mess it up."

"He _knows_ you're not happy," Hoshi pointed out gently. "I'm sure he would want to know _why_. Specifically."

Trip shook his head. "It's not important. They'll be gone soon."

Hoshi looked at him pensively for a moment, then tried to focus Trip on more pleasant topics. She hated to see her friend upset like this, being pushed around by someone who was little more than a bully—but on the other hand, what exactly could she do? She'd seen Trip do things that frankly frightened and amazed her—in defense of the Captain. But he couldn't stand up for himself. Well, she decided, remembering the Klingon's sneering face, he would at least have his friends around to stand up _for_ him.

 

Trip sat on the catwalk overlooking Cargo Bay 2, dangling his feet over the edge. Below him was the Captain, the half-dozen Klingon scientists, Chief Marcus, Hoshi, a bunch of engineers... and, discreetly stationed, several of Lt. Reed's security personnel. "Here for the show?" Malcolm asked as he walked by, making last-minute checks on a data pad. The Klingons were supposed to activate their equipment today.

Trip nodded against the railing. "I hope it works." His desire for success had little to do with improving human-Klingon relations or advancing scientific progress, and almost everything to do with getting the Klingons done and off the ship. He had to admit that he'd never been alone, wherever he went onboard lately, and he appreciated that—but he didn't want his friends to feel like they had to babysit him. They had real work to do.

"You going to stay up here?" Malcolm queried, heading for the metal stairway to the main deck.

"Yeah." There were Klingons everywhere down there, it seemed, and the Captain was the center of their attention, standing near the equipment with Dr. Surkas. "I'll be real quiet." Malcolm smirked a bit and descended to check with his men.

There was some amount of tension in the air as Dr. Surkas and Chief Marcus fired up the equipment. They'd been constructing it for nearly two weeks, after all, and the test results had been ambiguous—not bad enough to suggest they had something completely wrong, but not cause for celebration, either. Today they were going to try it for real, full power—it would either work beautifully, or it would short out spectacularly.

Nods were exchanged, diagnostics passed, countdowns begun. Finally Dr. Surkas started to slowly increase the power and the machine started whining more loudly. Was that good? Trip didn't know. They weren't stopping, so it couldn't be terrible. The whining escalated, became higher pitched. Chief Marcus looked worried. Okay, that _couldn't_ be good. Trip's heart sank. They were going to be here longer, he just knew it. As if on cue, there was a loud _pop_ from the machine and circuits began to burst in a vibrant display of sparks, sending the audience scrambling for cover. Marcus rushed around shouting orders to his people and finally yanked a power cord out. With a whimper of protest and a rattle of defeat, the machine died.

There was a brief silence. Then the Klingons began talking urgently amongst themselves. Hoshi had a translator in her hand, but the Klingons had been pretty good about speaking English while they were on _Enterprise_ and the Universal Translator hadn't been turned on over the whole ship. Trip peered curiously over the railing, trying to hear what they were saying. The fact that they were angry and disappointed was clear enough—Marcus was swearing up a storm as well. Dr. Surkas, as the leader of the group, had always been the most amenable to working with the humans, and Durgah the least, with the others falling somewhere in between. With this latest setback, it seemed they were starting to express their displeasure for the course of the project as a whole. Trip decided it might be time to move—not because he _wanted_ to, but because he knew he _needed_ to.

"Look, there's no need to call off the project," Archer was arguing. "We'll find out what went wrong, and we'll get it fixed. Marcus?" he asked hopefully.

The Chief Engineer was on his knees by the machine, deep into a back panel. There was a clunk from inside. "G-------t!" he swore, the sound echoing inside the metal box. It was not encouraging.

"What went _wrong_ was allowing these humans to become involved in the _first_ place," Durgah was saying, and some of the other Klingons were starting to nod.

Dr. Surkas waved his complaints off. "This could have happened anywhere," he insisted.

"Not anywhere with competent engineers," Durgah scoffed.

"Hey!" snapped Marcus, standing up. "My engineers have been working around the clock trying to meet your _insane_ specifications!"

"You see?" Durgah said mockingly. "They struggle with our most basic technology."

"You want a tip about technology?" Marcus shot back heatedly. "Try having someone other than a third-grader write your instruction manuals!"

"Okay, everybody," Archer said, putting himself in between Marcus and Durgah. "Let's just calm down. I'm sure we can discuss this in a reasonable manner."

"True Klingons do not _discuss_ ," Durgah huffed grandly, "we _act_!" He thrust his finger towards Archer's chest for emphasis.

His wrist was suddenly trapped in a vise-like grip, and he turned to see Trip staring up at him, eyes blazing. "Trip," Archer hissed through clenched teeth, "this is _not_ a good time."

Durgah laughed a little, derisively, and yanked his arm back. "And I thought this little one was _afraid_ of Klingons," he told the others in a sarcastic tone.

Archer felt his blood begin to boil and struggled to stay calm. Across the room, Reed was unconsciously checking his phase pistol and making eye contact with his men, just in case. "Trip, go home," Archer told the young man standing in front of him, trying to keep his voice low. He didn't need Trip getting injured, and possibly having a nervous breakdown, on top of everything else today.

Durgah, of course, picked up on Archer's remark immediately. "Yes," he sneered to Trip, "go home and walk the Captain's dog. _Pahkoh m'KetH ohchokt shatu!_ "

Archer frowned in confusion as several of the other Klingons laughed. Reed glanced down at the translator Hoshi held. "He's done it now," he murmured, grim satisfaction in his voice. Durgah had just insulted the Captain.

It was difficult to know which Durgah was more shocked at—the Klingon phrase Trip spat back at him, or the right hook to his face that sent him staggering backwards. Either way, he steadied himself and lunged back, shouting with fury.

Archer started to leap forward. "Trip!"

Dr. Surkas held him back by the arm. "Let them get it out of their system, Captain," he advised, apparently unconcerned. "It will ease the tension."

"You don't understand," Archer snapped, watching the two men start to belt each other down the center of the cargo bay. "He could be killed!"

"I promise, Captain, I will fully compensate you for the death of your crewman, if it comes to that," Surkas assured him. It was the Klingon way, after all.

"I wasn't talking about Trip," Archer retorted. But he didn't order the young man to stop.

Punches, kicks, and throws were being liberally exchanged between the two combatants, and Durgah was more infuriated by the fact that he hadn't won yet than anything else. Although the occasional phrases Trip was spouting in Klingon—which made Durgah's colleagues wince and Malcolm smirk, as they were translated on Hoshi's pad—probably weren't helping either.

"I don't get that one," he whispered to the Communications Officer.

"It's a play on words," she hissed back, intently watching the fight. "The word for 'rowboat' is the same as the word for—"

"Got it," Malcolm assured her.

"Shouldn't you stop this?" she asked him urgently. "Trip could really get hurt."

Malcolm shook his head. "As long as it's just him, hand to hand, Trip'll be alright," he told her confidently. "If any of the others start to join in—" Besides which, he'd been keeping a close eye on the Captain, and Archer hadn't given him the signal yet.

Durgah skidded backwards, slamming hard into the equipment whose malfunction had sparked this altercation. "Hey, watch that, will ya!" Marcus shouted from the sidelines. Durgah growled, wiping blood from the corner of his face. So this little human had some backbone after all. Obviously it was time to stop going easy on him.

The Klingon leapt at Trip, at the last moment unsheathing the dagger he wore at his belt. Malcolm and his men started to react the moment they saw the blade but weren't quick enough to stop him plunging the knife through the forearm Trip raised to block him. Hoshi gasped from the sidelines. "Don't move!" Malcolm ordered, phase pistol pointed squarely at Durgah's head.

Trip hardly seemed to care that the spectators had gotten involved—or indeed that he had a knife blade sticking five centimeters out of his arm. " _Kah'teh nukoh t'karnohk!_ " he snarled at Durgah—and pulled the knife cleanly from his own arm.

Malcolm couldn't help it--his jaw dropped. After shutting it he signaled his men again and they all stepped away. As far as _he_ was concerned, the fight was back on. Archer seemed equally stunned when Reed finally made eye contact with him and gave no indication that he should stop the combatants.

The floor was increasingly bloody and slippery as Trip jabbed with the dagger, mostly missing Durgah but keeping him off guard, on the move. Meanwhile he tried to dodge the Klingon's more powerful blows. Finally a kick solidly to the midsection doubled Durgah over and with a few more punches Trip had him on the floor on his stomach, wrists bound in one of Trip's hands while he kneeled over him, knife poised to strike.

"Trip!" Archer shouted, finally running towards him. Getting it out of his system was one thing; but he wasn't going to let him commit murder.

" _Mah'bok kutahki v'chosakh mokoht!_ " Trip shouted, plunging the knife down.

There was a clang of metal on metal and a few sparks, and then Durgah realized, to his great surprise, that he _wasn't_ dead—the knife had been driven into the deck plating just a centimeter from his neck, leaving a thin line of blood where it had grazed his flesh. " _Pahkeh_ ," Trip added contemptuously, standing.

Archer got his arm around Trip and hauled him back several feet, just to be on the safe side. "Okay," he said into the utter silence that followed the end of the fight. "I think that's enough for one day."

Durgah was sitting up as if in a daze. He kept rubbing at the trickle of blood on his neck, seemingly more shocked by it than by all his other injuries. Archer for his part kept one arm across Trip's shoulders for restraint and used the other to elevate the arm that was bleeding freely from the knife wound.

Trip was still flinging Klingon phrases across the room. " _Mohkah mehah! Sokah mah'bakh pah! Sukh fah!_ " If Archer read Klingon facial expressions correctly, his guess was most of the party fell somewhere between grudging admiration and disturbed-bordering-on-nervous. He thought back to the incident on the mining station and wondered if Trip was again relying on the Klingon apprehension of the reckless mentally ill. If he was, Archer feared he was burying himself in the part.

"Okay, stop it, stop it," Archer whispered in his ear. "Calm down. It's over now." Two of the other Klingons helped Durgah to his feet as he staggered off to the other side.

"I hope you'll forgive my nephew for his little outburst," Dr. Surkas commented, strolling over to Archer. He seemed fairly nonchalant about what had just occurred. "He's young and hotheaded, and needs to be taught a lesson every now and then."

Archer didn't know what to say to that assessment that was within a lightyear of polite, so he said nothing. "We're going to go down to Sickbay now," he decided, propelling Trip towards the doors. "Malcolm?"

"I'll get everything cleaned up here, sir," Reed assured him.

Apparently heedless of Archer's desire to get Trip away from Klingons, and everyone else, as soon as possible, Dr. Surkas followed the two of them. "Very impressive, Captain," he went on. "Viridian, isn't he?"

That was perhaps the one comment that could have made Archer stop in his tracks at that moment. Surkas smiled a little at the Captain's expression of surprise. "Our people have had some... dealings with them in the border territories," he explained. Trip snarled at him, just for good measure, and Archer tugged him back. "Infuriatingly docile most of the time, but they are ferocious warriors in defense of their masters."

"I'm not his master," Archer told him shortly.

Surkas shrugged as if to say, _Sure, whatever you want to call it._ "You're very fortunate to have him, in any case," he finished, and Archer finally realized he was trying to be conciliatory.

Considering how much blood Trip was losing the Captain didn't have a lot of time to spend on diplomacy, but he tossed off, "I can have my doctor take a look at your nephew—"

Surkas seemed to appreciate the offer even as he declined it. "Durgah is a warrior," he declared proudly. "His body will heal. But let us hope his pride will have a permanent limp," he added dryly. He opened the door to the hall for Archer, allowing the Captain to drag Trip through with a nod of thanks.

Phlox sighed with exasperation when Archer pulled Trip into Sickbay. "For goodness sake," the Denobulan exclaimed, already fetching scanners and supplies, "you should just have him take up permanent residence here."

"Sorry, Doctor," Archer replied sarcastically. For some reason Trip was still fighting him as the Captain tried to push him towards a biobed.

" _Mohkah mehah! Sokah mah'bakh pah! Sukh fah!_ " Trip declared urgently. He seemed to be desperate to explain something to Jon, or anyone who would listen, but unfortunately no one else in the room spoke Klingon. And Archer had a feeling it wouldn't make a lot of sense even if he switched the Universal Translator back on.

"Lie down, come on," Jon insisted, forcing him down.

"Captain, other side, if you would," Phlox suggested shortly, and Jon hurried to the far side of the bed so the doctor could examine the wound in Trip's arm. "Fighting Klingons, perhaps?"

"Well, just one," Jon clarified. "With a knife."

" _Mohkah mehah! Sokah mah'bakh pah! Sukh fah!_ " Trip was struggling to sit up, even as his voice grew fainter.

"Trip, it's over," Jon tried to explain. "I'm fine, everyone's... fine. There's nothing to fight anymore—"

" _Mohkah mehah! Sokah mah'bakh pah! Sukh fah!_ "

"Could you maybe shut him up or something?" Archer finally asked, frazzled by the incomprehensible shouting.

Phlox picked up the hypospray and set it to dispense two cc's of sonambutral. Then, taking a second glance at Trip squirming under Jon's restraint, he turned the dosage up two more clicks and swooped in to inject the tranquilizer into Trip's neck. "Internal bleeding," he announced coolly, glancing at the computer display. "I'll need to get him into the imaging chamber."

" _Mohkah... mehah_ ," Trip gasped out, fighting the sedative _. "Sokah mah'bakh pah... Sukh fah!_ "

"Calm down, you're going to be alright," Jon assured him, trying to make his tone more soothing. Trip's hand fell away from his as the compound Phlox had given him finally kicked in, though he was still mumbling as the doctor pushed the biobed into the machine.

For the first time since they'd fired up that equipment in the cargo bay Jon stopped to catch his breath. The experiment hadn't worked. The Klingons were p----d. Trip had nearly been killed in a knife fight and might have suffered a psychotic break, or at least had gone delusional. Malcolm likely had one of their guests in custody. And Jon was covered in blood. Although _that_ at least might improve his standing with the Klingons.

He shook his head. He couldn't afford to stop now. He needed to get back to the cargo bay and make sure another war hadn't erupted in the last ten minutes. "... _Sukh fah!_ " he heard Trip muttering, from inside the imaging chamber. He also needed to get some translations from Hoshi.

"You'll keep me informed, Doctor?" Archer asked unnecessarily.

"Of course, of course," Phlox replied distractedly, focused on the scanners. Archer turned and left before he changed his mind.

 

Travis was shaking his head in disbelief. "I _cannot_ believe I missed that!" he bemoaned. The other three officers at the table in the Mess Hall assured him the disappointment indeed ought to be immense.

"You should've heard Trip spitting out that Klingon," Marcus told him. "It was pretty spectacular."

Travis scrolled through some of the translations on the data pad Hoshi handed him. "Trip wouldn't even say these in English!" he exclaimed, wincing at some of the insults.

"What was he going on about right before he _yanked the knife out of his own arm_?" Malcolm asked again. He was particularly impressed by that part.

" _Kah'teh nukoh t'karnohk!_ " Hoshi read, coughing a little afterwards. "'Thanks for giving me a weapon!'"

The three men expressed their admiration for the sentiment. "What about at the end, when he had that dagger over Durgah?" Marcus requested. A part of the entertainment was hearing the petite Communications Officer pronounce the phrases, as well.

" _Mah'bok kutahki v'chosakh targ mokoht!_ " Hoshi told them, shaking her fist to add a little drama to the phrase. "'Die on your belly like a bound pig!'"

They all contemplated that for a moment, approvingly. "I don't understand why Trip just didn't kill him, though," Malcolm remarked. Aside from the fact that if he had, he would at this moment be sitting in the Brig, much to the crew's displeasure.

"The Klingons have an extensive honor code," Hoshi commented speculatively. "Maybe leaving Durgah alive, especially with the knife so close to him, was a worse insult than killing him in combat."

"'I could have killed you, but you're not worth the bother,'" Reed guessed. Hoshi nodded.

"You know, we still haven't been able to get the dagger out of the deck plating," Marcus revealed, shaking his head. "I think we're just going to have to cut part of the plating out around it."

"Maybe the Captain can put it up in his Ready Room, like a trophy," Travis suggested. He pointed at the data pad. "What was all that stuff at the very end?"

Here Hoshi frowned and stared at the translation. "I'm not really sure," she confessed. "I know what it says, literally, something about being a 'sword's edge' and a 'spear's point,' but I don't understand what it _means_. It's strange, it's kind of archaic, ritualistic language." She sighed and shook her head. "The Captain said Trip kept repeating it over and over again, even in Sickbay, so it must be pretty important. I thought maybe I'd try some of the literary databases."

 

Jon was staring pensively at his shelves when the door chime to the Ready Room sounded. "Come in," he called. "What do you think?" he asked Hoshi, nodding at the top shelf. "Is it too showy? Or too grisly?" An ornate Klingon dagger, thrust through a circle of grey deck plating, rose from a metal base on the top shelf.

"You had the blood cleaned off," Hoshi remarked.

Jon shrugged. "It was _definitely_ too grisly with the blood," he decided. "But I don't know... I don't know if it's really appropriate to keep here, like some kind of trophy. Maybe it sends the wrong message."

"I kind of like it," Hoshi told him thoughtfully. "It commemorates a successful partnership between us and the Klingons. Eventually successful," she amended. "After all, Dr. Surkas gave you an engraved dagger when he left the ship."

"I put that over here," Archer said, pointing at the table beside the couch. "A little more prominent, in the spirit of touting interspecies cooperation."

They both paused. "How's Trip doing?" Hoshi finally asked, as Archer settled himself at his desk.

The Captain shrugged. "He'll be okay. The doctor says he just needs to rest and heal up." No symptoms of imminent mental collapse either, yet at least. He looked at her expectantly. "Did you figure out what it was he kept saying over and over?"

Hoshi dropped into a chair on the other side of the desk. "I did, sir," she revealed, pulling out a data pad. She seemed pleased to have finally uncovered it. "It's from one of the Klingons' epic poems, a very famous one from what I can tell. The kind of thing Klingons have been retelling over campfires for about three thousand years."

"Some sort of ode to warfare, I suppose?" Archer guessed.

"Actually," Hoshi countered with a small smile, "it's a love poem." The Captain's eyes widened. "It celebrates all different kinds of love," she added quickly, allowing him to relax a bit. "Love between a parent and child, between brothers in arms..." She passed him the data pad. "The original Klingon is actually... quite moving," Hoshi admitted. "I tried to pick the best of the modern translations."

Archer was skimming the text. "Where's the part Trip was saying?"

"It's from the third cycle of the poem," Hoshi explained, tapping the pad to fast forward. "It's a story about a great leader who has won the loyalty of a homeless warrior." Archer looked up at her but Hoshi kept her eyes on the data pad. "They travel the land having adventures—even Klingon love poems have a lot of fighting in them—and the warrior dies honorably, defending his king." Archer swallowed and dropped his gaze back to the screen. "At the funeral, the king pays tribute to the warrior, saying he was 'the clasp on my cloak, the string in my harp, the point of my spear, the edge of my sword, the lightning in my storm.' Essentially... everything to him."

Archer was quiet for a moment. "Klingons... have harps?" he finally asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Apparently so, sir," Hoshi replied, smiling just a little. She scrolled a bit farther through the text. "There's more, sir. The warrior is so devoted to his king that he rejects the honors he's earned in the underworld and fights his way back to the land of the living. He becomes a sort of... avenging spirit, a wraith, wreaking havoc on the king's enemies one last time. Right before he executes someone, he repeats the words the king said at his funeral—'I am the point of his spear, the edge of his sword, the lightning in his storm.' That's what Trip was saying, sir. _Sokah mah'bakh pah..._ 'The edge of his sword.'"

"G-d," Archer finally breathed, after a long moment. "That's... sweet and yet... gruesome, at the same time, isn't it?"

Hoshi shrugged. "That's Klingon love poetry, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> That's about all for Viridian Trip. There's one more Viridian to go.


End file.
